


500 Crowns

by vands38



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (if you can call fucking for 20 years and not talking about it a relationship), Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cintra, Established Relationship, Found Family, Gen, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Podfic Available, Queer Ciri, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, fuck buddies, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22681204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Every year, Jaskier finds himself singing at Cintra’s court, watching Geralt’s abandoned Child Surprise grow up.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 220
Kudos: 2709





	500 Crowns

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [500 Crowns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037546) by [kseniamayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kseniamayer/pseuds/kseniamayer)



> I am working on my series, I promise, but in the meantime this idea just grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. Actually, you know what, that’s not entirely accurate: my _girlfriend_ wouldn’t let go. I posted [a fleeting idea](https://vands38.tumblr.com/post/190701101012/man-i-really-wanna-read-a-fic-where-jaskier-has) on tumblr last week because I had a plot bunny and I needed someone to take it off my hands. A shocking amount of you reblogged it (thank you) but still I resisted the temptation. Then, alas, my girlfriend saw it. She took it upon herself to ask me every single day if I had written it yet, and today, I relented. If you like it, you most certainly have her to thank.
> 
> Oh, damn, quick word about rating - it’s mostly Teen but also, we’ve been over this, Geralt only communicates through sex, so it pushed the whole thing into Mature. Thanks, Geralt.

Like most things in Jaskier’s life, the whole ‘returning to Cintra every year’ thing was more accidental than not. Jaskier had been enjoying his summer, performing in Vizima at the annual competition that he was undoubtedly going to win when a very interesting note was delivered to him from none other than Mousesack, the druid from Cintra -

_Child has been born. Princess Cirilla. Their majesties are hosting a banquet next week in her honour. It seems fitting to request your presence as bardic entertainment. All expenses paid and an incentive of 500 crowns if you make your way post-haste._

Five hundred crowns. Five _hundred_ crowns?!

Jaskier has to sit down as he re-reads the letter. Five hundred crowns was double what Vizima was offering if he won the competition. It was an outrageous amount of money for a single night of performance. Plus expenses. Room. Food. _Wine_. Five hundred-

He is penning an affirmative and handing it to the errand boy before he even realises he’s bailing on his chance to win his fame in Vizima. There is always next year, he assures himself.

\---

Jaskier is halfway to Cintra when his ego dies down enough to realise why Mousesack had offered such a hefty sum. It’s not Jaskier he’s after, but his _protector_. Mousesack is hoping that 500 crowns is enough to entice Geralt of Rivia back into the courts of Cintra.

Jaskier chuckles under his breath. Even if Geralt were travelling with him and knew of this invitation, Mousesack ought to know that Geralt cannot be bought. Jaskier’s seen the Witcher turn down money often enough to know the truth of it. Geralt goes on and on about not getting into the affairs of men, not playing the hero, but Jaskier’s seen him slip coppers to beggars and refuse payment from peasants and it’s… well, it’s downright noble. Geralt would dearly love to fleece a palace of such coin but only on his own terms. Jaskier wagers there isn’t a single thing Mousesack could offer that would have Geralt return to the halls of Cintra.

Jaskier suspects the druid is playing the long game though when Mousesack opens his arms to greet Jaskier and his musical company - his eyes only flickering behind him just the once, looking for his shadow - before returning to him with a smile only slightly less bright. “Julian,” he says sincerely. “I’m ever so glad you could make it.”

\---

The banquet goes well. Jaskier plays his usual array of uplifting songs (as Queen Calanthe won’t have it any other way) and when the newborn starts hollering at a pitch loud enough to make the entire hall vibrate he just plays his music louder and rowdier until the Queen is appeased.

He feels Catanthe’s gaze on him as he plays and wonders if she recognises him from the previous year, if she remembers his association… but if she knows it, she says nothing, and the evening carries on smoothly.

\---

In autumn, Jaskier makes his way north, knowing that he is much more likely to hear news of Geralt in Novigrad or Tretogor than he is anywhere south of Brugge. Geralt _likes_ south Redania for some reason. He always seems to gravitate there this time of year and Melitele knows it can’t be for the scenery. But without fail, every turning season Jaskier will be able to find him somewhere close to the Pontar and he’s starting to think (or, _hope_ , perhaps is the best word) that there’s a reason he finds it so easy.

It’s Oxenfurt this time. Geralt had immediately taken him to bed and ravished him quite thoroughly - reunion sex always was the best kind - and now Jaskier lowers himself into the bath when Geralt asks - no, _states_ -

“Heard you dropped out of the Vizima festival.”

Jaskier is certain he’s misheard. He must have. He tilts his head until he can see Geralt beside the tub, lacing his breeches like Jaskier isn’t planning on unlacing them again as soon as he’s out the bath.

“Tell me,” Jaskier says with a chuckle, “Where does a Witcher hear of such things?”

Geralt shrugs. “Around.” His back is turned as he pulls on his shirt and Jaskier notes with some annoyance that this means he cannot read his expression. Did Geralt make enquiries? Or did he genuinely just stumble across this information on his travels? Passed through Vizima, perhaps?

Jaskier sighs as he relaxes back into the steaming water, accepting that this was likely the best answer he'd get out of the man. “I received a better offer,” Jaskier says simply. It’s not that he’s keeping his visit to Cintra a secret, it’s just that he knows Geralt won’t be pleased, and he doesn’t want to have an argument if he can be having sex instead.

Geralt grunts, as if that’s answer enough, and Jaskier releases the breath he was holding.

\---

Next year, he finds himself receiving a very similar letter from Mousesack, although this time with some prior warning -

_Before you depart for Vizima, we would like to request your company at our lady Cirilla’s first birthday banquet. Same terms as last year…_

This is dangerous. Geralt _is_ going to find out, and he _is_ going to be pissed. But on the flip side, who says no to five hundred crowns?

He plays and the court love him and instead of cries coming from the little one, it’s gurgles, and Jaskier fights not to find it endearing.

\---

It says something about Geralt that the only time he indulges in anything even close to conversation is post-orgasm. They’re still lying there, after reunion round number four? five? and Geralt is still catching his breath, his fingers lazily still trailing down Jaskier’s arm in a way that makes his heart _ache_ because it feels too intimate, too tender, and too easy to pretend that this isn’t just -

“You came from the south again,” Geralt rumbles.

Jaskier frowns as he pieces the meaning together. Geralt’s barely let him sleep for the last two days and it’s not like the man is entirely coherent to begin with. Where were they even? Some depressing fucking tavern in Velen. Right. And he came from… Vizima. “The festival,” he says. “Every year,” he says, and apparently he’s become as taciturn as Geralt. “Have to beat…” he sighs, too sleepy and content to drag the name of his whoreson competitor into this blissful moment. He faceplants onto Geralt’s chest instead and waves his hand in the air, “whatshisface.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, though the sound is laced with amusement. “A very worthwhile endeavour.”

Jaskier slaps his chest playfully and thankfully falls asleep before Geralt can ask any more questions.

\---

The letter arrives again. Jaskier plays again. Little Cirilla is squirming in her mother’s lap, attempting to crawl away from the royalty. It reminds him of Geralt's blatant disdain of court and Jaskier finds that he doesn’t blame the child one bit for trying to wriggle her way out of it.

While Queen Calanthe is occupied, Jaskier strikes up a lullaby and sidles over to the royal table. King Eist gives him an indulgent smile and the parents look on with loving eyes as little Cirilla is captivated by the song, her eyes wide in wonder and her cries silenced by music, and Jaskier finds himself utterly enchanted.

Until, that is, Queen Calanthe hits up upside the head and demands that he play a jig.

\---

Spring has run long this year and they have followed a contract to Kaedwen which is practically the other side of the continent from Cintra.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt mutters as they ride further and further away from his Child Surprise. “We’ll get you back to Vizima in time.”

Jaskier has no idea how to tell him that it’s not Vizima he’s worried about. Mousesack hasn’t written to him this year but that’s because they had agreed that it ought to be a standing arrangement: every year, a week before the Vizima festival, he will perform at Cintra for the princess’s birthday. If he doesn’t show, he will likely never be invited back. He doesn’t like the sour feeling that thought provokes.

Jaskier holds his reins, keeping his borrowed mare from following Roach.

Geralt seems to notice and turns back with a frown. “Something wrong?”

“I can’t go with you,” Jaskier says with some effort. “I have business elsewhere.”

He must be imagining the crestfallen look that passes briefly over Geralt’s face before turning into one of stoicism. He must be. Geralt shouldn’t care one way or the other; he’s already allowed Jaskier to travel with him for much longer than usual, and they’ve had their fill of carnal activities.

Geralt looks north towards his destination and then back at Jaskier. “Very well,” he says, gathering the reins back in his hands. “Travel safe.”

Jaskier watches him go and pretends his heart doesn’t ache at the sight.

\---

Three. She’s three. This time she is half-crawling, half-running, towards him as he sings. He laughs as he ducks away from her inquisitive hands. He wonders if she remembers him or if she is just this enthusiastic about everyone she meets.

Cirilla is barely permitted five minutes dancing around him before his parents take her away, kicking and screaming, spilling their red wine onto her pink frilly dress.

\---

“You could have said goodbye,” Jaskier grouches as soon as he finds Geralt - this time in Rinbe - and they’ve fucked out their immediate anger.

“You could have given me some warning,” Geralt counters, and before Jaskier can ponder the ramifications of Geralt apparently being hurt by his sudden departure, he’s asking - “What urgent business did you have to attend to anyway?”

Ah, fuck. “I have a pre-standing engagement, south of Vizima, every year before the festival commences.” This is, after all, technically true. “It pays very well.”

Geralt grunts. “You could have said as much. I wouldn’t have taken you so far north if I knew.”

“You were chasing a forktail,” Jaskier reasons, “I doubt my bardic commitments would have stopped you.”

Geralt shrugs and it’s not an answer one way or another but it’s still oddly sweet that it’s not an outright denial. Geralt must catch the sentimental look in his eyes because he’s soon threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and giving him something else to think about.

\---

The mood in Cintra is heavy to say the least, not at all fitting for a party. Jaskier had heard the news about the demise of Cirilla’s parents, and had expected his regular appointment to be cancelled but Mousesack sent no word and so he turned up, just him, his entourage too afraid of Queen Calanthe’s wrath to come.

There is no banquet. There is only a grim gathering. Jaskier is ushered into a smaller hall, used for meetings perhaps, where Princess Cirilla is dressed in a garish gown with her white hair curled unnaturally around her dainty ears, and the presents from the lords and ladies lie unwrapped before her. Queen Calanthe is present, but oddly distant. Instead, King Eist attempting to entertain the child with a wooden spinning top. Mousesack serves the little lady some food and beside him stand a few key members of staff, but that is all. No parties tonight, it seems. 

“Julian,” Mousesack greets. He looks startled but not surprised as he stands to give a solid handshake to Jaskier. “How kind of you to come. Cirilla has so been looking forward to your visit.”

Jaskier knows it’s only courtly politeness, that the princess probably witnesses endless entertainment and he must hardly rank among the most captivating, but when Mousesack moves aside, he does in fact notice that the princess has turned oddly shy. “Is that so?” he can’t help but tease, dramatically bowing before her, then kneeling and placing a gentle kiss on her hand. The girl squirms at his attention; definitely blushing now. “Then I shan’t keep the princess waiting.”

He sings lullabies and ballads late into the night and for once Queen Calanthe doesn’t comment, just watches on with sad, pained, eyes. 

\---

“You’re quiet,” Geralt observes as they make their way towards Lindenvale. Geralt had met him in Downwarren this time - had actually sent a letter to Vizima to inform him - and now accompanies him through a very dark, very creepy, forest.

Jaskier shrugs. He supposes that the grief he witnessed in Cintra must still lie heavy on his shoulders. There isn’t even the usual sizzle of desire in his gut upon seeing Geralt. He supposes, if he weren’t grieving, he would have insisted on a roll in the hay (or, more characteristically, a fuck against a tree) before moving on, but he hasn’t so much as reached for Geralt since they were reunited this morning.

Jaskier didn’t even know Pavetta and Duny particularly well. He was only there for Cirilla (and five hundred crowns) but he can’t imagine waking up one day, especially as a child, and realising that there’s no one to take care of you. If there's been a time when he’s been tempted to tell Geralt about his annual visits to his Child Surprise then it’s now. _Geralt could take care of her_ , his traitorous mind whispers, but for as long as Cirilla has her grandparents he supposes there was no reason to interfere.

“I, uh,” Jaskier starts, and admittedly it’s not the strongest opening. “I want you to know - you don’t have to say anything-” he reassures hurriedly, “-but I want you to know that every time I see you, I am immensely glad that you are still alive.”

Geralt stops walking, and Roach obligingly stops alongside him. Jaskier cringes and turns away. They’ve been doing this for years. Fucking, and killing, and pretending that they don’t feel a damn thing, and, hey, maybe for Geralt that’s true, but Jaskier definitely feels like he’s crossed a boundary by simply acknowledging the fact that he’s glad Geralt exists. In any other relationship, that would be a given, but with Geralt -

He grunts. Jaskier feels his gaze rake over him, but before either one of them can act, the horrifying sound of an approaching leshen tears them apart.

\---

Festivities resume for Cirilla’s fifth birthday and by this point, there is no doubt in his mind that the girl remembers him and genuinely enjoys his music. Before he even unpacks his lute, he comes before her with an exaggerated bow and playfully wiggle of eyebrows. Cirilla giggles with delight. He acknowledges the rest of the royalty with no more than a nod of his head, which irritates Queen Calanthe greatly and only furthers his enjoyment of the act.

\---

That spring, Geralt finds the djinn. As Jaskier gasps on his own throat filling with blood, he really, _really_ , wishes he hadn’t.

“ _I just want some damn peace_ ,” Geralt had yelled, a desire that transpired was his first wish. Geralt was obviously having a Bad Day and maybe Jaskier should have left him alone to brood, but this is how it always goes - they find each other, they argue, and then they _fuck_.

Except this time, it’s not Jaskier that Geralt is fucking.

Jaskier doesn’t even blame Geralt for sleeping with Yennefer. She is, objectively, extremely hot. They are also not, by any means, exclusive. Sure, they're together all spring and all autumn long, but Jaskier loves his lazy summer romances and who really knows what Geralt’s doing when he’s locked up at Kaer Morhen over winter with three sexually-frustrated Witchers.

Jaskier doesn’t blame him one bit. It does concern him, though, when Geralt doesn’t return to the tavern, and later, when he doesn't return at all.

\---

By the time he’s back in Cintra with not so much as a word from the Witcher, Jaskier is starting to accept that maybe, this time, Geralt is finished with him for good. When he watches Cirilla happily dance in another hideous dress, with her white hair flowing loose - so like Geralt - he begins to wonder if five hundred crowns is worth shit.

“You’re _moping_ ,” Calanthe accuses. “Even your jigs sound downright maudlin. Take a break and fuck one of our girls, it oughta lift your spirits. Melitele knows, Joanne’s been eyeing you all night.”

Jaskier has made a habit of not indulging in dalliances at court. _Don't grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn,_ Geralt had told him the last time he stepped foot in this very hall. Jaskier still considered it very sage advice. He didn’t want to risk another transgression and get barred from the court, not when it was his only access to the Child Surprise, but if Calanthe herself has suggested it, and if Geralt didn't even know or care that he was here… well.

He fucks Joanne in the pantry - hard, and fast, and thoughtlessly - and it does, in fact, help to lift his spirits.

\---

He doesn’t win at Vizima. He doesn’t even come close like the years and years before that. He at least normally _places_ but his sorrow seems to be affecting his music beyond his control and it doesn’t matter how many people he takes to bed, it doesn’t seem to cure his heartache. He didn’t find Geralt in autumn, or spring; the man has disappeared off the map for an entire year.

Therefore, the last person on the entire _continent_ he expects to see during the closing ceremony of Vizima's Annual Bardic Festival is Geralt of Fucking Rivia.

Geralt’s loitering in the crowd, standing out like a sore thumb as Jaskier steps off the stage with less coin and reputation than he had started out with. Valdo Marx, the whoreson, “accidentally” bumps Jaskier with the obscenely large award as he passes and Jaskier is about to throttle the man when Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier and without blinking, shifts his foot so that Valdo trips and falls face first onto his statue. Blood begins to spurt from his deep, vicious face wounds but Geralt doesn’t spare him a glance as he strides with determination towards Jaskier.

“You didn’t place,” Geralt states.

“Why the fuck are you here, Geralt?” he snaps.

He’s mad. He’s so mad. Why does Geralt think he can just turn up on his doorstep with not so much as an apology after an entire fucking year of silence? Permanently scarring Valdo Marx is a great boon, for sure, but it’s not enough to make up for a wasted autumn, scouring Temeria and Redania for clues only to come to the devastating conclusion that Geralt didn’t leave him any to find.

Geralt’s face seems to pass through a number of expressions before he seems to discard all of them and surges forward instead to push Jaskier behind the stage and take his lips forcefully between this own.

The kiss feels like air to his lungs but Jaskier’s also smart enough to know that it’s no more than a distraction from the conversation Geralt is determined to avoid. Jaskier could let him have it. Could let him fuck him senseless and undoubtedly leave the next morning just as cruelly. But he’s done being treated like Geralt’s plaything; always responding to his schedule, his desires. No, this time Jaskier wants a damn say in the matter.

Jaskier bites his lip, hard enough to bleed, and Geralt groans as he breaks away, licking at the blood.

“Why the fuck are you here?” he repeats, fisting his fingers into Geralt’s open shirt and staring at him with such fury that he knows the Witcher will be able to read it. “Why the fuck-”

“I missed you,” Geralt gasps suddenly.

Jaskier is startled into releasing his fingers. “You-?”

“Missed you. I’m sorry, I-” Geralt is mouthing at his neck, tucking his face out of sight. 

The words are so soft, and so broken, that Jaskier’s heart aches with it. Tears spring to his eyes before he can suppress them, as he wraps his fingers through Geralt’s hair and holds him close. He wanted to be angry. An easy emotion. Love, and forgiveness, they are much harder to accept.

They’re surrounded by people. By morn, there will be rumours of a Witcher being entangled with a bard, but Geralt doesn’t seem to care, he just allows himself to be held as he lays kiss after kiss along Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier sighs and rests his head atop of Geralt’s. “I forgive you,” he whispers. “But next time, tell me when you’re going to disappear. Send a damn note. A raven. I don’t care. Just tell me. So I don’t spend a year contemplating your demise.”

Geralt pulls away with a confused frown as if he hadn’t fucking realised that’s what would happen if he left with no trail of breadcrumbs. His hand cups Jaskier’s cheek and he’s weak enough to turn into it and press a kiss on the palm in an act of tenderness Geralt normally wouldn’t allow.

He tries not to catalogue the way Geralt’s eyes flutter closed at the touch.

\---

By Cirilla’s seventh birthday, she has become vocal in her demands. She would like to be known as “Ciri”. She would like a tankard of pressed apple juice. She would like a new song. What’s interesting is that Ciri doesn’t demand these things like a prissy princess, she states them, like a Queen, or, amusingly, also like a certain Witcher.

Jaskier endeavours that when he returns for her eighth birthday, he will have a new song, and it will be his most beautiful one to date.

\---

Geralt seems to be delaying returning north. They’re in Ard Carraigh. The last city before Kaer Morhen. It’s not the first time Jaskier has been here with him; Jaskier has no urgent business in winter, merely travels from tavern to tavern to make coin in the cold months, so he will sometimes accompany Geralt this far north, especially if he is feeling reluctant to say goodbye. They’re never stayed here for longer than a night though.

“The first snow will hit soon,” Geralt laments as he looks out the tavern window towards the mountains. “The others are likely already at Kaer Morhen.”

“Then go,” Jaskier says simply, lying atop his broad chest, tracing the scars as if he can heal them.

Geralt’s chest moves beneath him, as if he is contemplating speaking, but no words come out.

Jaskier knows Kaer Morhen is somehow sacred to him. Geralt has never asked him to come, and Jaskier has never offered, but sometimes… sometimes he hopes Geralt will ask. Winter is long, after all, and by the time they meet in spring it’s always evident that Geralt has missed his company. It’s written in the desperation of his kisses.

“Another day,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier hides his smile against Geralt’s marred skin and wonders how many more days he can pry out of the last vestiges of autumn.

\---

Ciri greets him with a hug this time. It’s nice. Unusual, but nice. He responds with another exaggerated bow that she still finds amusing, before she pulls on his hand and drags him to the royal table to greet the King and Queen.

“I wrote you a new song,” he tells Ciri with a secret wink.

“Melitele’s tits, not another ballad, I hope,” Queen Calanthe drawls.

“I like the sad ones!” Ciri pipes up. “I want to hear it!”

And, really, who can resist the princess on her birthday?

Winter, he calls it. Winter. A song of longing. One he hopes never reaches the Witcher’s ears.

_Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall_

_Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun_

Ciri loves it and requests it another two times before nightfall.

\---

Geralt is particularly vocal upon their reunion in Maribor come next spring. They spent another winter apart and it seems Geralt wants to share his displeasure about this. Loudly. When they first started sharing bedrolls and mattresses nearly two decades ago, Geralt would barely make more than a grunt during the act but now Jaskier can extract all sorts of beautiful sounds from him. Words, too, if he’s good. Jaskier was only twenty-three years old when he first got Geralt to _beg_ and he’s been high on it ever since.

“ _Please-_ ”

It’s like music. No, better than music. Before he bedded the Witcher, he didn’t think there was anything better than music.

“Please _what_?” he teases because he loves, every time, the frustrated whine the words produce and the desperate hands on his back as Jaskier delays gratification.

“Come with me,” he babbles, and Jaskier didn’t think he was that close but maybe Jaskier simply hasn’t been paying enough attention. He murmurs assent into his skin as he picks up his pace because he wasn’t there yet but if Geralt is then -

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier says, and spills into Geralt entirely too soon.

Afterwards, when Jaskier has done apologising for his early release and Geralt is satisfied, he turns to him and asks, “Are you sure?”

Geralt is still panting as he lies beside him, his chest rising and falling in the most tantalising way. “No,” he says, but then he laughs and kisses him deeply and it’s getting increasingly difficult for Jaskier to tell himself that this is still a casual arrangement.

\---

By the time Ciri is nine years old she is an expert dancer. She’s light on her feet, rhythmic, and her ashen-hair (now grown past her shoulders) moves with her body gracefully. Presumably she is also, at last, permitted to have some say in her clothing as her dress is markedly less hideous than the ones from her early childhood. It’s deep turquoise, the colour of the ocean when sunlight hits it, and there is a lace hem that must have taken some poor sod weeks to weave.

Jaskier hates that at nine years old, the men in the room are watching her with a little too much interest. Queen Calanthe has noticed it too. She glowers at any man who dares look, but for how much longer? Calanthe will undoubtedly marry the girl before she is sixteen; she must be contemplating suitors already. The thought makes Jaskier suddenly, viciously protective.

There’s one boy watching her closely - 13, 14, perhaps - and Jaskier is filled with a seething rage that is normally reserved for one Valdo Marx.

Jaskier sees the boy moving towards her between songs and without thought, Jaskier abandons his lute and cuts in, allowing the rest of the ensemble to pick up the slack.

“My lady,” he says with an exaggerated bow that still brings a smile to her lips. “May I have this dance?”

\---

Nervousness isn’t usually a trait one associates with Geralt of Rivia but as they approach Kaer Morhen, Jaskier admits that there isn’t really another word for it. Jaskier reaches out and squeezes his hand just before the great wooden doors open and watches in awed disbelief as the tension seems to drain from his shoulders.

The other Witchers don’t quite know what to make of Jaskier, especially when Geralt introduces him simply as his “travel companion”.

Jaskier wants to fit in and even tries to join in with their rigorous training - Geralt always says he should learn, after all - but after two near misses and a swollen ankle, he admits defeat and scours the library instead. There is more lore on monsters here than Geralt’s ever disclosed.

Vesemir finds him composing one afternoon and merely grunts. “It’s pronounced _slyz_ -ard.”

It’s the first sign of acceptance, and after pranks with Lambert, and histories with Eskel, Jaskier dares take his lute out by the fireplace one evening and is pleasantly surprised to meet no resistance. By the end of his stay, Jaskier is taking requests and Lambert has, on more than one occasion, drunkenly sung along.

And if, by the light of the moon, Geralt leads Jaskier away from the bedrolls into the many empty crags of the castle to kiss him sweetly and fuck him possessively then no one need know.

\---

Jaskier will not admit to having been worried about Ciri but that’s not to say that he doesn’t immediately check for damage upon his return to court.

She notices his silent examination as she pulls away from the hug that has become routine. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says, “Just… you’re growing up fast. I worry that this world pushes you to adulthood before you are ready.”

There is make-up on her face and a dip in her dress that Jaskier is worried some of the uncouth men may take as an invitation.

She reaches up and cups his jaw as if _he_ is the one in need of comfort. “Better to grow inside these walls than outside them.”

Wisdom. He wasn’t expecting wisdom. This is the problem when he only sees her annually; there’s whole reams of growth between visits that he doesn’t get to witness. “You are right, of course,” he says, and gives into her silent wishes for a dramatic bow. “But I assume, as the Lion Cub of Cintra, that you are prepared for any eventuality.”

She frowns as if not understanding his meaning. She is at once both too old and too young. “I carry a knife,” she says. “If that is your meaning.”

Jaskier laughs, tears in his eyes. She is the destined daughter of Geralt, truly. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose that suffices.”

\---

Jaskier is invited to Kaer Morhen again that winter, and as spring turns into summer, Geralt still doesn’t leave his side. They travel together nearly nine months in total - excusing a break of a few days here and there - and not a day doesn’t go by when Jaskier wonders what he has done to deserve such longevity and at what point he is going to drive Geralt away.

They are camping in the desolate plains of Velen, companionably roasting meat over the fire, when Geralt asks, apropos of nothing -

“Do you still have that, uh, ‘pre-standing engagement’ south of Vizima?”

“Huh?”

“Last time we ran long like this, early summer, you said you had something to do before the festival. Is that still standing? Or do we have another week?”

Ah, fuck. Geralt hasn’t asked him about it in years. He thought he had forgotten. It is, actually, quite flattering that he even remembers that conversation given that it was several years ago.

“Yes,” Jaskier says cautiously, praying that Geralt won’t pry because if we was going to be pissed the first time, he would definitely be pissed after an entire decade of lying to him. “Soon. It will take two weeks or so to travel there.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully and in the moment that passes Jaskier prays to every god that is listening to let him leave it alone. “What kind of ‘engagement’ is it? Would I need an invitation? Or a doublet?”

Jaskier is, momentarily, speechless. Geralt wants to come. They’ve never spent the summer together. He is paralysed with indecision - he needs to see Ciri, but the temptation of spending an entire year with Geralt is… good. Very good.

Geralt takes his hesitation for something else. “Ah,” he says, his face a mask of indifference. “I am not able to attend, I understand. No doubt you already have plans,” he says with a crooked smile. “No matter. I ought to visit Yennefer in-”

“No,” Jaskier says nonsensically. “I mean, yes. It’s not-” This is going swimmingly. “I mean to say that it’s a private event. I can’t bring guests. That’s all.”

Geralt looks at him pensively and Jaskier knows he knows it’s total bullshit but he’s not going to say anything because then, Melitele forgive, Geralt would have to admit to wanting to be there and that’s clearly not something he’s capable of.

Geralt hums decisively. “We’ll head south tomorrow. I’ll take you past the forest.”

“Meet me in Vizima afterwards?” Jaskier dares to ask, and is rewarded with a gentle smile.

“Of course,” Geralt murmurs. “I would like to see you crowned victorious.”

\---

A scuffle breaks out in Cintra’s halls. A boy had tried to dance with Ciri. Jaskier couldn’t see through the throng of people but the boy must have done something to offend her because the next thing anyone is aware of is a knife sticking out the boy’s abdomen and blood dripping onto the pristine floor -

“Oh shit,” Jaskier exclaims in surprise, his hands stalling on his lute as he watches the boy stagger backwards.

He darts forward, instinctively reaching for Ciri, but as he grasps her he realises that the girl seems perfectly fine. Not even phased that she stabbed a man. Once again, Jaskier reminds himself that he is dealing with the Lion Cub of Cintra, a child with strong magical blood, who is destined to be bound to a Witcher. Of course she’s fucking fine.

Calanthe tilts her head back and laughs, a boisterous sound that echoes around the silent hall. “And let that be a lesson to all suitors that dare set their eyes upon our Cub!”

Her audience begin to nervously titter along with her and before long the ensemble are picking up the music again and the dance resumes as the bleeding boy is dragged away.

Jaskier, though, still hasn’t loosened his grip on Ciri’s arm. Ciri turns towards him and covers his hand with her own. “I’m fine, Julian. Really. He was only a slight bother.”

Jaskier chortles in disbelief. “A slight-? A slight bother?” For some reason this conversation feels remarkably similar to an argument with Geralt. “Dare I ask what happens if a man offends you more than a _slight_?”

Ciri shrugs with a knowing smile. “Then you know what happens.”

Jaskier hasn’t witnessed her rumoured powers since her first birthday, when she did no more than make the windows shake a little in their frames, but he has no doubt she’s capable of much more. “Very well,” he says with a smile. “And I’ve no doubt that he deserved such a fate.”

He searches the hall until he locates the boy’s party who are fussing over him as if he will die from the mere scratch. Jaskier survives worse almost every year on the road with Geralt. The boy is no doubt trying to attract sympathy with his protestations, which, admittedly, is a tactic that Jaskier has used on Geralt many times to great success. “I shall retrieve that pretty knife of yours, my Cub,” he informs her. “And then we shall dance.”

\---

Jaskier is indeed crowned victorious at the Vizima Festival and he can’t help but notice that Valdo Marx is mysteriously absent for the celebrations. Geralt meets him there, as promised, and they partake in their own celebrations. He’s clearly spent some time with Yennefer again but his sexual performance is none the less spectacular for it. Actually, Jaskier might owe her some thanks for a particular new trick she’s taught him.

By autumn’s end, they’re on the road to Kaer Morhen again and when they arrive Geralt spirits him away to a tower, promising a surprise. After many, _many_ , stairs Jaskier isn’t sure if any surprise is worth the exertion, until he spots the central feature in the room.

A bed. Oh, sweet Melitele, it’s a bed. He loves Geralt, he does, and he loves staying at Kaer Morhen but screwing on hard, cold, surfaces throughout all of winter was really starting to grate on him and as loathe as he is to admit it, he’s not the spritely twenty-year-old that Geralt first laid with.

“I want you to fuck me,” Geralt murmurs against his ear and it makes his knees _weak_. After a dozen years of the privilege it still sends shivers down his spine that he is allowed to touch him so, that he is allowed to see this secret, unguarded, pliant version of Geralt that no one else - he thinks, he _hopes_ \- is permitted to see.

“Yes,” he whispers, but as he takes Geralt apart - slow and gentle and sweet - the act can hardly be called ‘fucking’ at all.

They’ve spent years together. They’ve fucked in every conceivable way. They have probably, actually, _invented_ ways of fucking. But lovemaking is something they rarely do - it’s something forbidden that they can only indulge in under other guises. That time Geralt tied him up, for instance, and made love to him for hours. Because it’s a tease, then, you see, it’s not love. That time Jaskier had nearly bled out from a kikimore wound was because they were just being careful of his injuries. That time they challenged each other to stave off their orgasms and touched each other languidly until sunrise was simply a boyish competition. They could never confuse the act, no matter how tender, with something approaching love.

Except, this time, there is no guise. Jaskier kisses him sweetly and Geralt accepts it. Geralt touches him reverently and Jaskier basks in it. Jaskier keeps his movements slow and purposeful and Geralt wraps his arms around him to keep him close and neither of them feel compelled to break the spell.

They had spent the whole year together, Jaskier realises, and it felt as natural as breathing. When they break apart this time, neither of them make to leave the bed, exchanging lazy kisses until sunrise.

\---

Ciri does not greet Jaskier with the same enthusiasm as previous years. There is an absence of the usual colour in her cheeks as she walks over to hug him. “Julian,” she greets softly. “I missed you. I hope you have penned some new songs for my enjoyment.”

Something is definitely wrong. Jaskier dispenses with his usual dramatic greeting and instead kneels down to get a better look at her, taking her pale cheeks into his hand, searching her eyes for an answer. “Ciri? Are you alright?”

“I’m feeling a little under the weather,” she admits. “But not enough that I cannot enjoy-?”

“ _The Stars Above The Path_ ,” Jaskier fills in for her. Another ballad he wrote while feeling particularly sappy about Geralt. “That is your song this year. Happy birthday,” and then, he brandishes the flowers he had sourced on his journey here and watches tears spring to her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Cub?” he asks, but he doesn’t get an answer as she barrels into his arms once again.

Throughout the feast, her complexion does not improve. Ciri does not even dance. It’s enough of a concern that when he calls a break, he immediately returns to her side at the royal table - Calanthe giving him only the slightest reproachful look as he does so - and escorts her outside. “A little fresh air,” he suggests, loud enough for the eavesdropping nobles to hear him, “Might assuage the illness.”

“I’m bleeding,” she admits as soon as they are free from the courts.

Jaskier feels rage bubble under his skin again, well prepared to skin whatever object or man dared hurt her, when she clarifies -

“From below. I think it’s time.”

Oh, sweet Melitele. This is a conversation mothers are meant to have with their daughters, but he imagines the terrifying Queen Calanthe giving this talk to her granddaughter and realises, suddenly, why Ciri is coming to him instead. He knows a little, but likely not as much as she needs. He leads her to a bench and sits her down. The last rays of sunshine are disappearing over the roofs of the city. As too, he supposes, is her childhood. “You know what this is?” he asks, to make certain.

She nods, meekly. “I read about it. The women’s monthly bleeding.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, swallowing his nerves. He has no idea how to talk about this but he has to try. Who else can Ciri go to for help? “It started today?”

“Yesterday,” she says meekly. “It was brown. I-”

Jaskier does his very best not to look disgusted by the details. Twenty years on the path with Geralt has done him well, it seems.

“I did not realise what it was until today. I feel weak. And teary. And it _hurts_.”

 _Breathe_ , Jaskier reminds himself. _Breathe_. He reaches out a hand to rest it on the girl’s shoulder but he does not rightly know who it is intended to support. “What are you using to stem the bleeding?”

“Rags. I don’t know if-”

“Clean?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jaskier breathes out a sigh of relief. “Okay, good. But they make special ones you can get that, uh,” he tries to recall them from the ones he’s seen in stores and on floors of women he has bedded and describes it the best he can, “they clip onto your clothes so they don’t move-”

Ciri’s eyes light-up. She must already have encountered this problem.

“Tell your maid, or Mousesack even, to acquire you some. As for the pain, I know someone - or, rather, Ger-” he hesitates. He has never spoken the name in the courts of Cintra for as long as he’s been here and yet he nearly let it slip. No, she must come to him in her own time. She likely doesn’t even know of the Witcher's existence yet. “My _friend_ ,” he corrects, “knows someone who makes potions for this kind of thing. It will dull the pain. I will source some and send them to you, then you can have your herbalist make it,” he says, already plotting what lie he can spin to get Geralt to contact Triss on his behalf. “You need to sleep more, bathe more, and eat, uh…” he rattles his brain. What is it Geralt always makes him eat after blood loss? “More liquids. Red meat. Green vegetables.”

Ciri nods, taking this all on board. Jaskier hopes he is at least right in the majority of these things. It’s not like he ever thought he’d need the information. She lets out a shuddery breath and wraps her arms around her stomach, in pain or comfort, he doesn’t know. “You must think me a fool. Not knowing these things.”

“Oh, sweet Cub,” he says sincerely, tilting her face up so she actually looks him in the eye. “I could never think you a fool.”

\---

“You are a foolish, foolish, man,” Jaskier tuts as he approaches the still-fuming man on King Niedamir's mountains.

“Not now, Jaskier,” he growls, glaring at the valley below them as if it will provide a much needed answer. His very shoulders are tensed as if he might shake apart at any moment.

“If you said any of those vile things to me, I’d probably be out the door, or at least withholding sex for a number of months and Yennefer has much, _much_ , less experience dealing with you in one of your moods.”

“ _Jaskier-_ ”

“She is right though about-” he nearly says the name and catches himself in time, “the Child Surprise. Melitele knows you’ve been avoiding that long enough. And if they’re right about war brewing then-”

“ _Jaskier-_ ”

“Fine,” he says, raising his hands in defeat. “Sit here and mope. I’ll be waiting with Roach.”

A question. A test. After spending the last couple of years together, Jaskier is still worried that Geralt will up and leave at any time, and if he’s going to do it at all, it will most likely be now.

“You are deluded, Jaskier, if you think I’m letting you descend this mountain alone. Not with the amount of trouble you so frequently find yourself in.”

Jaskier chuckles, warmth blossoming in his chest. He approaches Geralt and indulges in a little softness that no doubt he needs after Yennefer’s harsh words and brushes a kiss against his cheek. Geralt’s eyes flutter closed. A little of the tension in his shoulders dissipates. Jaskier could spend centuries translating the meaning of these things but he long ago learned not to linger on these moments lest they stop coming. Jaskier pretends he does not love him. Geralt pretends he does not know. And the world keeps turning.

“I won’t leave,” he assures him and leaves it to Geralt to interpret if he means the mountain or forever. (He means forever). “Find me when you’re ready.”

-

Ciri’s thirteenth birthday is lively, most likely because she is now allowed to drink and takes advantage of her newfound freedom by drinking and dancing the night away. Jaskier persuades her to sing a duet and then she is dancing amongst the boys with a confidence that Jaskier has not witnessed before. Perhaps the stabbing the two years ago did well to establish her as a woman not to be trifled with because Jaskier notes with delight that although all the men fall at her feet, every single one of them keeps their hands to themselves.

He does notice though, that Ciri doesn’t spend nearly as much time with the boys as she does with one particular girl. A new friend that Ciri has acquired this year and one that Calanthe clearly disapproves of if her glare is anything to go by. The friend’s clothes are tatty, he supposes, not indicative of wealth, but then when a break is called, he sees her pick up a tray and gather the cups and realises exactly where Calanthe's disapproval lies. 

Jaskier puts his lute aside and Ciri bounds towards him almost immediately, insisting that he must try the cake (he does, it’s very nice). “Your friend-”

“Claudia,” Ciri says, and if he’s not mistaken, there’s a lilt to her voice that is usually missing.

“ _Claudia_ ,” he emphasises, “seems to be taking quite a bit of your attention this evening. Is there something I ought to know?”

She flushes brighter than he’s ever seen and begins to pick at her dress (deep purple, this time, but no dip to be seen). “She is a servant here,” she explains. “Grandmother does not approve of our friendship.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says, watching Claudia sneak them furtive glances as she cleans the hall. “Friendship is all it is, is it?”

Ciri flushes, somehow, even deeper. “I do not know if-” she looks around, as if afraid someone is eavesdropping on their conversation, but the majority of the attendees are distracted by a brawl happening over the last keg of ale. “I know these things happen, but I-” she trails off, embarrassed or uncertain.

Ah, fuck. Here it goes. “They happen," he says boldly. "To me.”

Ciri raises an eyebrow, but there’s definitely interest in her eyes.

“I have loved a man for twenty years and I never cared two coppers what anyone thought of it.”

She looks amazed by that, and Jaskier is too, when he says it out loud. He’s never said it out loud before. “Why have you never brought him here?" she asks. "I would so dearly love to meet him.”

Jaskier chuckles, feeling a blush on his own cheeks. “He is… not one for courtly entertainment,” he says, putting it mildly. He steers the conversation back to Ciri before she can ask his name, “The point is, you have to follow your heart, Cub. No one else will do it for you. If I had never dared kiss him, I doubt he would have ever given in to his own desires.”

Ciri smiles sweetly at him. He had let himself get rather sentimental about it, he supposes, but twenty years is a long time to be in love and not say it out loud. “How did you know?” she asks.

“I-” Jaskier frowns, trying to recall. He remembers meeting him in that tavern and being immediately captivated but it wasn’t until two years later that he decided to act upon it. Geralt had been saying something incredibly stupid and he wanted to shut him up and he had thought ‘well, I know one way to shut him up’ and pushed him against a wall and kissed him. Simple, really. “I suppose I… felt a connection in my heart when I met him and years later I realised what it was and I… nurtured it.” He shakes his head, trying to dismiss the sentiment lest it nestle in his heart and break free when he sees Geralt in two weeks time. “What about you? Do you feel her in your heart?”

Ciri bites her lip and looks over at Claudia. Claudia blushes and adverts her eyes. Ciri looks back at Jaskier. “Yes. Yes, I believe I do.”

“Then, quite frankly, fuck Calanthe.”

-

Shit goes sideways shortly after that. Geralt's camped away from him, investigating a lead, when he sees Nilfgaard marching on Cintra and he's already enroute when he sends word to Jaskier that he won't be returning that night. Or any nights. Or possibly ever.

As Geralt strides into Cintra without any idea of what awaits him, Jaskier does rather wish he had disclosed the child's name at least.

Geralt's going to look like he doesn't give two shits when he actually cares so deeply that he had insisted on leaving the princess in Cintra all these years purely for her own safety.

Ciri had said it herself - _“Better to grow inside these walls than outside them.”_

But Calanthe doesn't know Geralt like he does; she won’t know how to read between the lines. Jaskier wagers that whatever Geralt says, it's going to go _badly_.

Jaskier wants to ride straight to Cintra to intervene but then realises that there will be a whole army in his way by the time he gets there, and he doesn't even want to imagine Geralt's rage if he attempts that. Instead he does as Geralt asks and heads to Kaer Morhen ready for winter, and does his best not to worry himself sick about the two of them.

He hopes they find each other. He hopes they're on the way to Kaer Morhen. But he doesn't _know_. And his nerves are starting to wind up Vesemir, he knows, as he paces the fortress over and over again but he can't stop _worrying -_

 _He ought not to die without knowing_ , is a perilous thought that creeps in under the light of the moon. _He ought not to die without knowing he is loved_.

A month after his arrival, he is pacing the grounds when an almighty movement of air picks up around him.

He stumbles back, reaches for the knife in his boot, ready to face whatever hellish monster steps through the portal -

When a flash of ashen-hair tumbles towards him.

"Ciri," he gasps, so overwhelmed with relief that he forgets his audience.

Ciri looks up, blue eyes meeting his and then she's launching herself into his arms. "Julian!"

"You're safe," Jaskier cries, rocking her back and forth as they clutch each other on the muddy ground. "Oh thank Melitele, you're safe."

He daren't hope but now she's real and alive in his arms and he feels Geralt's strong presence behind them and he can't keep the tears at bay.

"Julian?" A female voice asks disbelievingly and Jaskier raises his head to see Yennefer beside Geralt. Of course she's here. They all found each other and it's a bloody miracle.

"It's my name," he huffs. "At least in some circles." He pulls back from the embrace to inspect Ciri but she looks mostly intact from what he can tell.

He can no longer resist looking to his lover but there is a curious look on his face, a frown, even, and Jaskier realises the huge amount of shit he’s in a little too late as Geralt growls, “You two know each other?”

“Of course I know him!” Ciri says with pride, heedless of the situation as she bounces to her feet, leaving Jaskier sprawled on the ground. “He sang to me every year at my birthday.”

“You…” Geralt’s eyes shift from Ciri to Jaskier and there is something indescribable in them. He looks enraged but also soft? It’s a very peculiar look. “You never said.”

“You never asked.”

Yennefer inhales through her teeth and leads Ciri by the shoulders. “I think we ought to give them a minute, don’t you?”

Geralt is scowling now. Yes, it’s definitely a scowl. Jaskier loses sight of the women as they make their way further into the fortress. 

“Your recurring engagement south of Vizima,” Geralt states, and Jaskier’s got to give it to him; that was quicker than he anticipated. “You were seeing my Child Surprise? All this time?”

Jaskier stands up shakily, trying to look a lot more dignified than he currently feels as he brushes flakes of dried mud from his doublet. “Someone had to keep tabs on her since you so hastily abandoned-”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Don’t use that line on me, you know why I-”

“I know!” Jaskier shouts. “Which is exactly why I _did_. I looked over her because I knew that you could not.”

“Why?” Geralt whispers, genuinely confused. “I remember that year. I had barely seen you. You had no reason to-” he shakes his head, his expression still riddled with confusion. “Why would you even go?”

“Well, initially, I admit, it was for 500 crowns.”

Geralt huffs a laugh and Jaskier wagers that his initial rage is wearing down.

“But also,” he says softly, “because I loved you, and I wanted to take care of you, and this was something that I could do.”

Geralt’s breath stutters, his eyes are suddenly averted.

Jaskier shakes his head, a little anger of his own seeping in. “I know we’re not meant to acknowledge it. That things are a lot easier this way. But you asked why, and that’s why. Because I love you.”

Geralt mutters, so low that Jaskier can barely hear it over the winter’s breeze, “That’s not why. The reason I didn’t acknowledge it. That’s not why.”

“Then what is it?” Jaskier asks, stepping closer, daring to lift his hand to Geralt’s cheek. “Tell me.”

“The same reason I left Ciri in Cintra,” he says earnestly, his eyes piercing into Jaskier’s. “I did not want to see you getting hurt. A Witcher’s life is no life at all.”

Jaskier gives him a crooked smile in return. “I get to choose how to live my life Geralt. I chose - I still choose - to live it with you.”

Geralt rests his head against Jaskier’s and Jaskier feels his own heart pounding in response. Then, Geralt licks his lips and Jaskier watches every movement, entranced. “Then stay,” Geralt murmurs. And this time Jaskier knows that he's not talking about a bed, or a venture, or even a winter at Kaer Morhen. He’s talking about forever. "Stay."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! you can follow me on [tumblr](https://vands38.tumblr.com/) if you want :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [hsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsu/pseuds/hsu) Log in to view. 




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